


Catharsis

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Feels, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Stiles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So go on,” Stiles said. “Be angry.” His mouth brushed across the corner of Derek’s mouth. “Show me how angry you are.” Another fleeting kiss. “Better yet, make me feel it.”</p><p>Derek said, “Stiles.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt “angry Sterek sex”, although it ended up more like “intense sex while Derek has a lot of feelings about Stiles”. (Original prompt fill can be found [here](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/post/51742323552/in-which-i-once-again-fail-to-write-exactly-what).)

It was just a scratch, but it was one that bled a lot, and the sight of it – of Stiles bleeding – flooded Derek with incontrollable rage. He ripped out Deucalion’s throat with so much force the neck broke too. Stiles vomited at the sound, and ultimately that was the thing that snapped Derek back to his senses: Stiles hunched forward on the concrete floor, bloodied hand pressed against his collarbone, face contorted, hurting.

“Stiles.” Derek rushed over, dropped to his knees. It wasn’t until he put his hand on Stiles’ rounded back – warm, trembling, alive – that he realized they were both covered in Deucalion’s blood. “Stiles,” he said, again.

Stiles stirred under his touch. “I realize this might not be the best time to be quoting Marvel movies,” he said shakily, “but that was really violent.” He sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his clean hand.

“You’re okay,” Derek deduced, grabbing Stiles by the shoulders to twist him around. “Let me see—”

“It’s not that deep,” Stiles said. “I’m okay. It’s nothing, really, ‘tis but a scratch…”

The fresh, sharp smell of his blood was almost too much to handle. Derek’s grip on his anger was starting to slip again. He breathed through his mouth as he inspected the cut. “You need stitches. I think.”

Stiles’ face twitched. “I can’t go to the hospital. My dad…”

“We should call my mom,” Scott’s voice came from somewhere behind Derek. “She won’t mind.”

With some difficulty, Derek forced his attention away from Stiles’ pulse to focus on Scott’s instead. Erratic, but strong. He was unharmed. “The others?” Derek asked, though he’d heard their heartbeats get cut off one by one.

“Isaac and I took down the twins. Peter killed Kali,” Scott confirmed. “We found out where they’re keeping Cora. She’s unharmed. Isaac and Peter are on their way there now— Stiles, are you…”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said, holding up a hand to stop Scott from coming closer. “Go get her. _Go_ , Scott. I’m okay.”

Scott said, “Derek?”

Derek nodded.

“Call my mom,” Scott repeated, and took off.

 

* * *

 

Melissa’s car was already parked outside the apartment building when Derek arrived with Stiles. She stitched Stiles up swiftly and stoically, asking, “Is everyone all right?” but not pressing for details. While showing her out, Derek was briefly overwhelmed by the urge to hug her. He settled for touching her shoulder and saying, “Thank you.”

Stiles flung himself around Melissa’s neck as soon as Derek moved out of the way. “Thanks, Melissa.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I wish you and Scott were getting into, well, _normal_ teenage trouble,” Melissa said with a sigh. Her hand passed lovingly across the back of Stiles’ head. Derek looked away.

Stiles hiccupped out a laugh, stepped back. “I promise next weekend we’ll all go out and get drunk like normal teenagers.”

“Deal. You’ve got my number. I’d gladly pick you up from anywhere any time of the night if it meant nothing supernatural or injury-related was involved.” Melissa smiled softly. She turned to face the door. “You boys should take a shower. Goodnight.”

“You go first,” Stiles said, pressing a kiss to the curve of Derek’s shoulder. “I need food, I’m fucking starving.”

 

Derek rested his forehead against the tiled wall and breathed. The water clattered down around him. Steam. Dust and sweat and blood and fear and strength swirling down the drain. He used Stiles’ shower gel, the expensive stuff the sheriff had gotten his son two bottles of for his birthday (“Don’t want you bitching Derek into buying it for you,” he’d said gruffly, Stiles letting out a nervous giggle and hissing, “ _Dad!_ ” in response). Derek scrubbed the scent onto his neck, throat, and face until it was all he could smell. He used the usual amount.

Stiles joined him after a while, complaining at first – “Jesus Christ, Derek, it’s a fucking sauna in here,” – but then wordlessly allowing Derek to hold him and stroke him and wash his hair. Derek pressed his palm to the bandage to take away the pain from the cut and stitches. Only two insipid tendrils of black crawled up the veins of his wrist, dissipating almost immediately.

“Geek,” Stiles said with a kind smile. “I told you it barely hurt.” He smelled of tomatoes and fried eggs and cheese. There was no uptick in his heartbeat, no waver in his eyes. Derek touched the bandage again. A leftover spasm of rage rose in his throat like bile. He swallowed it away. He cradled Stiles’ head in both hands and kissed him deeply before getting out of the shower. He wrapped a towel – one of the oversized cream-colored fluffy ones Stiles had insisted on – around himself. After a few seconds that felt like minutes, he reconsidered, left it in a puddle on the damp bathroom floor. Naked and wet, burrowed in their many bed sheets, he waited for Stiles.

 

* * *

 

The warm familiarity of Stiles’ body curled around Derek from behind. “Are you asleep?”

“No,” Derek mumbled, blinking his heavy eyes.

“Liar.” Stiles slid his arm around Derek’s ribcage, his hand joining Derek’s hands under his pillow. Again, Derek felt the residual anger simmer low in his chest. He found himself wishing Deucalion had been a fucking Hydra. How wonderful it would’ve been to rip off head after head after head after head until, finally, Derek had had enough and could safely scorch the many throats shut forever. Until his thirst for destruction and catharsis and vengeance had been quenched for good.

Voice even, Stiles asked, “Are you angry with me?”

Derek shook his head, took Stiles’ hand between his. “No.”

“But you are angry.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know.”

“I do.”

Derek abandoned his fetal position and shifted onto his back. Stiles moved along fluidly. Knees on either side of Derek’s body, soft lips nudging up against his jaw, long graceful fingers curved around his shoulders.

“So go on,” Stiles said. “Be angry.” His mouth brushed across the corner of Derek’s mouth. “Show me how angry you are.” Another fleeting kiss. “Better yet, make me feel it.”

Derek said, “Stiles.”

Stiles laughed quietly. “C’mon, man. What’s better than a good old post-mortal danger fuck?”

“Sleep,” Derek said. “Showers. You being safe.”

“Well then. Ding, ding, ding, congratulations, you’ve ticked all three boxes. Now shut up and kiss me.”

Derek scowled and said, “Wasn’t sleeping,” but allowed Stiles to suck him into a kiss without further hesitation. Stiles was eager, tactile, hands roaming, tongue insistent. It didn’t take long for Derek to get overcome by a twist of lust so strong his lower body arched away from the mattress.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “C’mon, show me.” His hands had settled on either side of Derek’s head, thumbs pressing down on his jaw to keep it open, fingers fluttering absently against the hair at the back of his neck. Stiles had slinked into a more horizontal position. He was everywhere now; their chests were touching, their legs almost parallel. As always, he was heavier than Derek expected him to be. Derek was thankful for that, for the real, tangible presence of Stiles’ weight on top of him. A literal anchor.

“Hold on,” Stiles said after a while. Derek’s mouth felt wet; Stiles’ voice sounded strained. , Both their pulses had risen considerably. “This isn’t very comfortable.”

He was pushing himself back into an upright position. Derek took advantage of the opportunity by curling his arms around Stiles’ back and flipping them around. He caught the last note of Stiles’ laugh on his tongue, and suddenly he saw red. Anger, anger everywhere, not directed at Stiles but at the psychopathic alpha werewolf that had tried to take Stiles away from Derek tonight, at the world that kept trying to take him away, the world that kept trying to take _everything_ away, that had succeeded at taking—

“It’s okay,” Stiles murmured. His long fingers were around Derek’s neck again, twisting and twitching. “C’mon, let it all out, show me, make me feel it, it’s all right. Come on, Derek.”

Derek found himself attacking Stiles’ throat. He was kissing it, nipping at it, sucking on it, scraping his stubble across the already reddened skin, trying hard to come across as playful but unable to eliminate the undertone of desperation from his movements. Stiles had his head tilted far back into the pillow. Derek’s heart lurched when he happened across the bandage, but Stiles didn’t even seem to remember his own injury anymore.

As Derek mouthed and fingered his way down Stiles’ body, words continued to tumble out of Stiles: _yeah_ and _Derek_ and _fuck_ and _oh_ and _yes_ and _Jesus_ and _fuck_ and _show me_ and _fuck me_ and _I’m all yours_ and _yeah, yeah, yeah_.

The insides of Stiles’ thighs pulsed beneath Derek’s palms as he pulled them wide apart and held Stiles open like that. The wet head of his dick tasted like comfort. Derek sucked it into his mouth, wrenching another loud “ _Derek_ ,” from somewhere deep within Stiles.

Stiles tended to comb both his hands through Derek’s hair when Derek blew him, restlessly and incessantly, as if petting an animal that would bite his hand if it stopped moving. This occasionally resulted in him pushing Derek’s head down and then gasping out, “I’m sorry,” even though they both knew it was okay, that Derek kind of liked it. Tonight Stiles didn’t apologize, too busy mumbling _oh_ and _Derek_ and _yeah_ under his breath.

“Derek,” Stiles was saying now, voice rough. He stroked Derek’s cheek. “Derek, lube.”

Derek pulled off and sat back, brushing his hand along Stiles’ dick. Stiles shook his head. “No— too much,” he said, rolling onto his side and reaching for the nightstand drawer with trembling fingers. “I don’t wanna come before…”

Hastily, Derek pulled the tube and foil package from Stiles’ hands.

Stiles was suspiciously loose already – “In the shower,” he grinned, eyes glistening – but Derek took much longer than necessary to prep him anyway. He waited, patiently, for the sweet sweet moment when Stiles started grinding down onto his fingers and reaching for his face, mumbling unintelligible words, eyes slipping shut and then fluttering open again. It was one of Derek’s favorite things about sex with Stiles: the fact that he never stopped talking, never stopped moving, never stopped wanting _more_ in the most graceful of ways. _Warm, trembling, alive_ , Derek’s brain chanted. He suppressed the shudder that ran down his spine.

As Derek rolled the condom onto himself, Stiles twisted onto his side again, lying almost facedown with his arms outstretched to both sides and one leg pulled up. Derek looked at him for a while. Too long, apparently, because Stiles threw a faux-coy glance across his shoulder and said, “Well? Are you gonna fuck me or what?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, throat thick. He leaned forward, pushed Stiles down into the mattress again so that he could press a kiss between those pale shoulder blades as he sank inside. The side of Stiles’ face visible to Derek was the one that held most of his birthmarks. Derek dragged his mouth across them, trying to lick as many as he could with one stroke of his tongue.

Stiles snorted and pushed his head deeper into the pillow. “Gross,” he said, fondly.

“You love it,” Derek told him, rolling his hips. Stiles made a soft noise, so he did it again, harder this time.

And then Stiles, slack-faced and closed-eyed, asked, “Still mad?” and _yes_ , Derek was, he was— at the mere mention of the word he felt it curl at the back of his throat again, hot and painful, the rage at the fact that someone had wanted to take all this away from him. Derek growled.

Stiles reached back, cupped his hand around Derek’s neck. “It’s okay,” he said, pushing back onto Derek’s dick, “it’s okay, I told you, I can take it, I want to take it, I want it, I want you, fuck me like you mean it, Derek, fuck me like you never want to lose me—”

 _I_ do _mean it_ , Derek thought angrily, his forehead clacking dully against the back of Stiles’ head. _I_ do _never want to lose you. Goddamnit, Stiles_. He thrust faster, deeper, clawing his blunt nails into the pillow on either side of Stiles’ head. Stiles was writhing, moaning. Derek braced his feet against the mattress and grabbed onto the headboard with one hand, hoisting himself up so he could up his pace even more.

Stiles moaned, “ _Derek_.” A drop of sweat was sliding from his temple down his hairline, and suddenly Derek realized his own back was clammy all over. It startled him. It wasn’t like him to be this out of touch with himself, to be so intensely focused on something (some _one_ ) else that everything else just fell away. Nothing else mattered. Stiles was the center of the universe, here and now, forever and always.

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbled, “make me feel it, make me feel it for _days_ , Derek, make me feel you—”

Derek pressed his forehead into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder and lost himself in the feeling of Stiles all around him, his voice his heat his skin his scent, all of it, all of him, warm and trembling and _alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).


End file.
